


Weary Winter Coming Fast

by DovahDoes



Series: Agent Myers & The Two Princes [2]
Category: Hellboy (Movies 2004-2008)
Genre: .....and Narza tbh, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Antarctica, Attempt at Humor, Canon-Typical Violence, Characterization I guess?, Gen, Humor, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Protective Chulainn, Protective John Myers, Stubborn!John, Whump, Wonder if this is actually worth posting..., everyone's just trying not to let anyone else get hurt basically lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2021-01-22 15:54:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21304658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DovahDoes/pseuds/DovahDoes
Summary: A simple day out with the science team takes a turn for the perilous when enemies of the Winter Court ambush the BPRD caravan that Chulainn's tailed along with.  And since John is along for the ride, he's along for the fight, too.ORPrince Chulainn wants to spend time with John, even when he's working his 9-5.  Unfortunately, some blood-thirsty assassins end up ruining what was supposed to be a run-of-the-mill outing.*[A lil fic detailing the events directly ahead of what happens in 'Occasionally the Twain Shall Meet'.  (It's literally earlier the same day.)]
Relationships: John Myers/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Agent Myers & The Two Princes [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1166525
Kudos: 38





	Weary Winter Coming Fast

**Author's Note:**

> (Title is a line from Robert Burns' 'To a Mouse')
> 
> This was originally supposed to be a first 'chapter' of '[Occasionally the Twain Shall Meet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16372718)', but I shaved it off completely and threw it into fic limbo until 3 or so months ago, when I began to work on it, again. I'm... not 100% thrilled with it, but I spent wayyyy too long editing this just to _not_ post it. lol.
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy getting to see how Nuada's romantic competitor interacts with John on a regular day with some slightly higher stakes than usual. ;p

_[[As always, here's [a ref for Prince Chulainn](https://imgur.com/00ERTXD)\-- that's"Cullen"-- (and [here's](https://imgur.com/yb6GA6S) a 'dressed up' version)._

_Ideally, he'd actually look a few years older, as he's just a bit younger than Nuada, but it's pretty close.]]_

* * *

The mess with Bethmoora by way of Nuada has been resolved for a few weeks, and the BPRD’s hands have been untied just in time to deal with the next problem: a spike in supernatural activity across the continent that is stretching their semi-limited number of employees to the limit.

Luckily, in their time in Antarctica, the BPRD has accumulated a number of local allies— even integrating a number of them into its ranks in a number of departments and positions. Most notable among those local allies is the impressively powerful and extensive Winter Court, which has taken a real shine to the mortal-run organization in the past year.

This level of comradery translates into a willingness to lend the BPRD a number of helpful personnel, from stable masters, to spellsmiths, to historians, to an occasional member of their royal guard. 

Along with a number of members of the winter court, the youngest member of its royal family (and fifth in line to the throne), Prince Chulainn, is not an uncommon sight on base as of the last handful of months. 

Generally speaking, the Ice Queen’s people have been a common sight at the BPRD’s South Pole HQ for quite some time, but the youngest prince, himself, has _really_ taken to spending time on base and accompanying the occasional expedition with a noticeable frequency.

Moreover, John’s schedule in particular must be divinely arranged, because eight times out of ten, lately, the supernaturally flawless winter fae is either in direct contact with his team or is working in some capacity that keeps him nearby.

If the guy weren’t so effortlessly easy to work with, the whole thing would have really started to get his back up a few months ago, when he’d first noticed his increasing presence. It had all kind of felt a bit like the way Hellboy had started to dog John’s every footstep in those last months before having him transferred away to the opposite side of the planet. Thankfully, Chulainn has turned out to be about as different as anyone could be from John’s former teammate.

Whereas everything about the boisterous demon had been out in the open and plain to see (if not _hear_, when he got to ranting and diatribing), the somewhat enigmatic royal fae tends to be the very definition of cool and calm. (Less so when it’s solely him and other members of the Winter Court coterie going out with John during the BPRD agent’s rare off hours— _then_ the adventurous prince opens up and seems a bit less restrained about his emotions.)

And today, John is _sorely_ in need of a few friendly faces, whether it’s one of Chulainn’s usual guardspersons, like Dyth and Ultan, or even his nosy across-the-hall neighbor. It’s only halfway through his day, but already it has been one of the absolute _worst_ ones he’s had at the South Pole.

To start with, his phone had died overnight, thanks to an apparently faulty charging cable, and with how overworked he’s been recently, he’d managed to oversleep by nearly a full hour. He’d then only had about ten minutes to pull himself into some semblance of order, but still start work on time.

In the end, he’d abandoned dealing with his hair in favour of brushing his teeth and a perfunctory shave when it had come down to his final choices for last-minute morning ablutions. 

The next box ticked on the ‘bad day checklist’ is that, today of all days— when he’d fairly thrown on his clothing and then hadn’t had the time to use _quite_ enough pomade to style his hair in any way approaching presentable, considering how it’s about time to get it cut— the ever-put-together, elegant ice fae prince surprises John by joining in on the mission, unannounced.

_Great_.

His team lead, SSA Choi, raises his eyebrow at John and tilts his head meaningfully when Chulainn, Narza, and two heavily armored praetorian Winter Court guards walk into the garage from the other set of doors leading inside gigantic garage. Catching his superior’s meaning, John quirks a small, pained smile at the ill timing of the subtle, considerate offer: yes, he’ll ride in the same vehicle as the fae delegation (even if he wishes it were happening _any_ other day besides today).

“Your Highness,” John greets as he walks over, inclining his head politely, and sticking with formality in front of his coworkers and BPRD personnel.

“Agent Myers,” Chulainn replies, taking in John’s weary form and slightly unkempt appearance in one quick glance. “You look… _eager_ to be on your way for this outing. Let us find which vehicle best suits our needs, today.”

“I am, yes. And let’s— _please_,” he responds, already feeling his mood lift just a bit at the opportunity to spend some time with two of his friends, even if only in a professional capacity.

Thankful that the prince hadn’t said anything too biting, John nods thankfully and plods over to the vehicle that Narza is already starting up, startling for a moment when Chulainn darts an arm out to open the front passenger side door for him.

“Oh— ah, thanks,” he murmurs as he climbs up into the geared-out SUV and buckles himself in.

Before he can even think to reach for the door and pull it closed, it’s pushed shut by the very same royal ice fae who’d opened it for him in the first place, leaving one of his gloved hands ineffectually hovering in midair for a few seconds.

Narza’s face is rife with mischief and humour, as usual, and John doesn’t question the muscle-bound guard captain’s amused grin, instead uttering a simple greeting.

“Morning, Narza.”

“John. Glad we got here early enough to tag along on this thing, after all. While your scientists do their research, we can head nearby and look at the ruins, if your team can spare you.”

The human in question buckles in and glances up at the rearview mirror, wherein he sees Chulainn settle down between his two armored guards while the last open door slams shut. He is _not _sure his team can spare him, but with such an easy escort mission located not too from the base, he’s pretty sure his team and the half dozen scientist under their care will be fine he spends a few minutes scoping out another potential research site.

Settling back into his seat, John very nearly smiles; maybe his day _is_ salvageable, he thinks to himself, gradually dozing off for part of the trip in the comfortably warm interior_._ That ends up being perhaps the final, ironic nail in the coffin for his day.

After a few minutes of much-needed sleep with an uncharacteristically quiet Narza at the wheel, John feels almost ready to face the rest of the day, drowsily squinting out the front windshield at the small flurries falling throughout the unchanging landscape ahead of them.

“So how far is—”

Between one moment and the next, everybody in the vehicle is tossed about as some sort of impact causes the SUV to spin out and go skidding across hard-packed layers of snow and ice until its two left wheels sink into a deep drift of soft snow that brings it to a sudden halt.

“Is everyone alright?” Chulainn asks sharply, pulling back the white-blue glow that had encapsulated the car’s interior up until it had stopped moving.

With a vaguely affirmative-sounding groan, John pats around at seat-level until he finds the release for his seatbelt, which he presses as soon as he takes a fortifying breath. The car is at a slight angle, so it takes a moment to swing his door open when he is also pushing it _up _to a certain degree. His door is concave, and he still feels a bit out of breath from the awful shock of the whole thing, but he manages to climb up and out into the frigid air.

“Nngh,” Narza grunts, moving slowly over the center console and towards the door John holds open with hands made a bit shaky from adrenaline. The big fae seems slightly dazed, gingerly rubbing at the side of his half-shaved head before awkwardly shuffling forward, having to navigate the odd angle carefully due to the large metal pauldrons on his already broad shoulders.

By the time Narza manages to clamber out of the SUV, his royal charge and two guards are out and scouting the vicinity for whatever had knocked them off course. A strong breeze has John readjusting his heavy coat’s hood when its furry lining momentarily obstructs his view, and in that time, the prince and his bodyguard seamlessly switch posts.

“This,” Chulainn says over a piercing wind that is picking up every second, “Did _not_ happen by chance. Someone, _somehow_, was tipped off as to my last-minute decision to come with you lot.”

A thick snow begins to fall from seemingly out of nowhere and the sky rapidly darkens and fills with clouds that move at an unnatural speed, stoking a growing uneasiness in John’s gut. Tightening his hood due to the increasing chill, he also slides on the snow goggles that are hanging around his neck before squinting upward at the brewing blizzard. He knows Chulainn is capable of a decent level of ice magic, but none of this weird weather seems to be originating with him.

Narza stalks back over, flanked by his two subordinates, and shakes his head in the negative: no results on what had collided with them earlier. Then, as if reading his mind (something that John would be able to feel, were he to actually attempt it), the Winter Court scion speaks up from behind him.

“This storm is not my doing. I am trying to locate its source, but—"

There is a _loud _sound of metal crunching and something heavy making two loud impacts with the icy ground beneath it and John startles, spinning to face the direction the sound had come from. It takes a moment to pick out the totaled vehicle from his rapidly whitening field of vision— the task being made more difficult by the fact that the white roof of the SUV is facing them because it’s resting on its side. 

John’s eyes flicker with grim determination, and he turns to the four fae behind him, landing last on their leader.

“Stay here with your guards. I’m going to…”

The human BPRD agent trails off when the two guards at Chulainn’s sides abruptly take off in the direction of the barely visible smoking wreck.

“…uh, stay here, I guess, and try radio-ing this in.”

While tries to do so, receiving no response in his earpiece after relaying their dire straits through his communicator, the prince issues an order to his bodyguard.

“Narza, find the last vehicle— ensure its inhabitants’ safety. Rendezvous with us afterward.”

With the other three fae having vacated the immediate area, John is left still staring at Chulainn, who scarcely raises a brow at him.

“My people will assist yours— including locating the third vehicle that has not yet been found. Something strange is afoot and I would have your help, here, versus elsewhere.”

Chulainn’s words are hard to discern over the now vicious winds of the full-on blizzard isolating them from the rest of the world. A sudden change in the air pressure is felt, followed by a several small series of vibrations in the ground, prompting both men to draw their weapons. Without a word, they smoothly move to stand at the ready, facing opposite directions, peering into the blinding squalls of snow as best they are able.

A particularly strong gust of wind actually manages to send the fatigued BPRD agent staggering sideways until Chulainn’s helpful hand braces him at the shoulder. Righting himself, John wipes the screen of snow from his goggles with a gloved hand, and in doing so, just manages to catch something moving out of the corner of his eye.

“Down!” he yells, turning to desperately tug the tall figure next to him in his direction, sending them both crashing onto hard-packed snow as a result.

The big, grey-blue blur he’d seen approaching swoops overhead and releases a shrill shriek that is disorienting at so close a proximity. Exhaling a relieved breath when the man atop him quickly pushes himself up and back into a crouch, John realizes his goggles and hood have both been knocked off thanks to his tumble and simply resigns himself to having to squint through the repeated barrages of falling snow again. For a moment longer, Chulainn remains looming over him, pale eyes casting about warily and flickering with barely contained magical power.

When the prince does stand back up, it is with a grimace. He lays a bare, slate blue hand somewhere on his back, before smoothing out his features, and helping John up to his feet, as well. There is an echo of the earlier screech and then another rings out in tandem in the distance, accompanied by intermittent spurts of barely audible gunfire.

“Assassins from the defectors, then. _Again_,” the fae says, sotto voce, facing away from John while scanning the rapidly moving, low-hanging snow clouds that are undoubtedly concealing more of these interlopers.

_“Assassins?” _John mouths to himself while pulling his uncooperative hood back up, feeling as confused as he is alarmed (which is _very)_.

Readjusting his grip on his service weapon, he pushes down any doubts about how much good his bullets— even _if_ custom-made— will do against who knows _what_ sort of supernatural creature is causing the ruckus all around. The howling of the wind steadily grows louder and louder as he squints into the blinding mixture of snow and ice, waiting on tenterhooks for the attack that they know is incoming.

Another spate of rapidfire gunshots precedes an elongated, warbling screech somewhere close by, but well outside of his limited field of vision, triggering an uptick in his pulse. Shaking himself, he allows his training to kick in, sending a flood of cold determination through his veins as he deliberately slows his breathing— and just in time, too, as trouble again finds him and Chulainn.

The air pressure suddenly changes again, causing his ears to painfully ring for several seconds and temporarily leaving his sense of hearing about as useless as his sight. Slightly panicked, he tries to keep as much of the area around him in view as possible, but it is to no avail.

Something huge and as solid as a brick wall clips him hard in the torso as it barrels by, sending him stumbling and spinning around trying to recapture his balance. John’s vision keeps swirling from the impact and how fast he’d been bumped out of the way, but at least his wonky hearing seems to have been knocked back in order, and just in time, too.

A surprised shout reorients his focus on Prince Chulainn, who’s grappling with what looks like a grey-blue, winged gargoyle that seems to have several inches (and at least fifty pounds) on the fae. Knocking his hood back down himself so his peripheral vision can remain uncompromised, John takes his eyes off the pair to drop to his knees and frantically search the ground for his sidearm that had been knocked out of his hands when the giant rock-monster had run by.

The snow-muffled clatter of one of Chulainn’s twin scimitars hitting the ground ratchets up the prone BPRD agent’s desperation to find his missing pistol.

As the wind whips up into a true, whistling howl, the prince’s voice chimes very faintly in his head through what feels like an insubstantial mental connection to his guards and John.

_‘…have sorcerers— **strong** ones_. _They …-ow dampening my power. …spread out too far. Where …Narza?’ _

His gloved hand has accumulated a thick layer of white powder by the time it bumps into a familiar, metal shape in the several inches of fresh snowfall. With practiced efficiency, he aims his service issued gun (loaded with BPRD-issued custom ammo) at the wrestling pair, breathing through the intense discomfort in his ribs.

_‘Will do,” _Narza responds, coming through clearly but almost inaudibly._ “Working with the other two and BPRD field agents to move the scientists out of the open. Dealing with these sorcerers and their flying golems where we can, too; we’ll circle around in a minute.’_

Chulainn’s eyes shimmer with impeded supernatural power when they meet John’s for a moment, and he barks out something that almost sounds like “Run!” over the nearly deafening icy tempest. John has never been very adept at lip-reading (or so he can tell his friend if questioned later), and figures that since he’s already accounted for wind-speed and trajectory as best he can, he might as well make use of that information.

The shot flies true, and something like a mixture of rock and ice falls to the ground right in front of Chulainn after the fearsome creature disintegrates on the spot. A strange shortsword pulsing with indigo light flies through the blizzard and pierces the ground right next to John, who, even having been trained to _not_ touch magical objects of unknown origin, picks it up with his offhand for immediate use on any incoming threats.

Threats like the pair of twisted, humanoid forms that take shape out of the moving wall of white snow as they lope toward him. He dispatches the first one quickly with a half dozen well-placed shots to its head and the top of its torso, but the other cadaverous, long-clawed aberration never breaks its shambling stride, its hollow-eyed face distorted by a thick coating of murky ice.

The unnerving creature comes nearer, but John hastily pockets his gun in his coat, and then brings the mysterious, glowing sword up just in time to parry a cleaving downward strike from claws that resemble a set of sharpened ice picks.

Its aggrieved wail intensely disorients him and he stumbles to the side while barely managing to block and dodge another series of random blows from skeletal grey hands tipped in deadly pseudo-blades. Every other second, he hears the grating, sound of metal on stone from behind him, eventually picking a moment to turn his head a few extra degrees to one side. At a glance, Chulainn appears to be faring pretty well with fending off another gargoyle-thing and a fabric-enshrouded humanoid figure that wields a glowing sword like the one John is using.

Refocusing on his own task at hand, John starts trying to really get into the flow of every lunge and swipe coming his way and is soon able to pinpoint a recurring gap in his opponent’s guard, just like Narza has been teaching him to look out for. Testing the creature’s comprehension of any real combat strategy, he switches his stance and steadily moves a few feet over to one side, leaving his enemy off-balance while it tries to continue facing him head on. 

Re-positioning himself turns out to have been a serendipitously timed choice, too, when his incidentally raised sword happens to deflect an arrow aimed at his chest up and to the side. It ends up coming so close to his face that he feels it graze the skin of his left brow just as his ears actually register the metallic clang of it hitting the sword’s broadside.

“Shit,” he grits out, winching his left eye half-shut to deter the continuous trickle of blood from entering it.

Finally, one of his precisely-aimed strikes lands true and leaves one of the creature’s arms hanging unnaturally limply, covered in a goopy, dark liquid that oozes from the deep cut near its shoulder. As it sways to one side to avoid his follow-up thrust, John finally catches sight of his royal fae friend that the frost ghoul has been obscuring for the past several minutes or so.

There are no signs of the prince’s previous pair of opponents, save for dark, gravelly areas in the snow. More alarmingly, though, Chulainn falls down onto one knee in one of the blemished splotches of snow, and then wavers there unsteadily, facing away from John. The element-wielding immortal holds one trembling hand before himself as he tries to sustain a decreasingly opaque wall of glowing, white-blue ice magic that repeatedly flickers in and out of existence.

A supernaturally fast swipe of a clawed that John has to parry away steals his attention, but his worry for the nearby fae— whose head is dipping in exhaustion and whose conjured shield is entirely gone— triggers his second wind.

The adrenaline-fueled BPRD agent feints to the left before stepping straight forward and stabbing up and directly under the chin of the looming monster, immediately incurring a rush of foul-smelling, viscous grey fluid that oozes down the blade of his sword. He instinctively drops it, lest the nasty-looking substance turn out to be poisonous to humans.

Simultaneously, there is a crescendoing, enraged roar that comes from somewhere out of sight in the nearby shifting whiteness, right before a willowy figure is thrown onto the ground in front of Chulainn. Howling loud enough to rival the strong wind around them, the humanoid form writhes and struggles ineffectively, remaining very firmly impaled in place by Narza’s glaive, all the while.

John steps over the gurgling, wheezing thing he’s mortally wounded, and it abruptly crumbles into dust, much like all of its ilk has so far. The distressed young man doesn’t take much note of it, though, as he hurries toward the blue and white-clothed figure of his friend, who seems to have recovered enough to painstakingly try and stand back up, awkwardly keeping one hand laid across his front.

As he jogs up, Narza emerges from the rapidly dying blizzard and then breaks a wicked-looking composite shortbow over his knee before bracing a booted foot on the prostrated archer’s back. The snarling fae bodyguard’s eyes are dark from iris to sclera when he uses the leverage he’s just gained to twist the glaive where it’s lodged in the attacker’s torso, and drag it cleanly upward through bone and muscle toward the being’s head. (John doesn’t quite have the stomach to see how and where the polearm’s blade exits, but now that the winds have died down to almost normal levels, he certainly _hears_ everything in visceral detail.

The resilience of supernatural peoples frequently astounds him, but John still has trouble comprehending how Chulainn is up and about, seeming relatively unbothered about _the two arrows sticking out of his chest_, towards one of his shoulders.

At about the same time as John gets within an arm’s length of the rather grievously injured prince, the formerly fierce snowstorm finally downgrades to a few intermittent flurries of small flakes. From the east, a group of figures moves towards them from not all too far away, but John is distracted by the conversation in the mind-link that has been restored almost to its usual level of clarity.

_‘I am alright_,’ Chulainn says, mentally. ‘_The bolts’ trajectories were altered and slowed enough to do relatively minimal damage. I’ve had much worse in the past, right Narza?’_

_‘Not since I became head of your personal guard, you haven’t_,’ comes the tight response, immediately.

Instead of continuing that thread of tense conversation, the two fae update John on how close medical help for Chulainn is (very) and exactly who the _hell _it is that’s riding closer every second (backup from the Palace). Sighing internally, John blows out a deep breath he has been holding for quite a while, now.

Using the human’s shoulder as a crutch and leaning heavily on him (a strange choice, considering the presence of big, be-muscled Narza so close by), the fae prince’s not insignificant weight increases ever so slightly as time ticks on. Between that and the two arrow shafts sticking out of Chulainn’s chest that slowly ooze and drip dark blue blood everywhere, John’s level of concern ratchets up every second it takes for help to actually, properly _arrive_.

Thankfully, a familiar fae named Dyth soon rides straight up to them and stops her large, white mount (or rather, _Chulainn’s _big snow-coloured elk thing) a scant few feet away from the three men. Behind her, a number of winter court reinforcements fans out over the area, assisting any BPRD agents or employees still in need of aid.

Exhaling shallowly and allowing himself to slump once the weight of the Winter Court scion is transferred over to Narza— whose strength is an asset in assisting the other man up onto his statuesque, magical steed— the wavering flood of adrenaline in John’s system finally washes away.

A new, dour-faced fae sidles up to John while he watches the wilting, injured prince quietly converse with two other winter court members while adjusting the tack on his mount. Almost the moment he properly settles into the saddle, he sets off the direction of the BPRD base, the closest medical facility by far.

Chulainn briefly turns to glance at John and then something (or possibly some_one_) behind John before kicking his giant Antarctic-moose thing into high gear and darting off into the distance with unbelievable speed. Flanking him are two of the recently-arrived praetorian guards on their larger, wooly mounts that somehow manage to match his pace.

The increasingly weary BPRD agent can’t help but wonder exactly _what_ they feed these fae-bred creatures.

_‘Magic_,’ a familiar presence drily retorts through the barely still viable link between he, Chulainn, Narza, and the two initial guards, who have left with their royal charge.

_‘Ass_,’ John shoots back at the prince, even as the web of everyone’s joined thoughts begins to dissolve again.

There is the fading impression of someone chuckling that John can only associate with Narza, wherever the guy is. Logic says he’s probably about to follow along after the prince any second, now, but there’s no real pressing need to find out, so the train of thought is quickly abandoned.

Feeling a bit lost as he watches his coworkers being grouped up by spare fae warriors, John eventually finds his gaze catching on a big splotch of indigo blood-soaked snow next to his feet. There is also a little trail of blood droplets that indicates any place Chulainn stood, earlier, for more than a few seconds.

When he’d turned around, earlier, Chulainn had been facing away from John— covering for the distracted human’s weak spot— and had been maintaining some sort of shield. He _sorely_ hopes the other man had been solely protecting himself from the ranged attack and not trying to compensate for John’s inattentiveness during a chaotic battle.

The BPRD agent fixates on the way that the dark, exotic-coloured substance remains unfrozen in spite of the frigid temperatures surrounding it. In his mind’s eye, he thinks back to the way that Chulainn had been facing away from John, earlier, when the battle was still ongoing— covering the distracted human’s blind spot with a highly taxing magical shield.

He sorely hopes that his friend hadn’t put himself under that degree of physical duress solely to compensate for John’s relative inexperience in that type of combat.

Teetering at the edge of an intense guilt trip while thoroughly lost in thought, an unexpected brush of a hand at his shoulder has him flinching hard and reaching for his gun before a sharp flare of discomfort in his chest and a dose of common sense stop him short. Turning around a bit gingerly and with a wry smile for his would-be-‘attacker’, John reins in his pain-induced grimace before speaking to the unfamiliar, bemused fae before him with a level of forced casualness that probably sounds as flimsy to others as it feels to him.

“Hey! Sorry— only knew something was attacking us once it’d made contact, for a while, there. Ahaha. So, uh… that reaction was an ‘it’s not you, it’s me’, kinda thing.”

Charcoal grey eyes— their sclerae, irises, and pupil all the same colour— stare back at him with no change and the silvery-lavender, beautiful face remains similarly unmoved.

Pop culture references are lost on members of the Winter Court, he notes.

In lieu of further tanking his interaction with his yet-unnamed acquaintance, John simply follows them past Narza (who has evidently been standing unobtrusively somewhere behind John for a bit, now) and over to a pretty mundane-sized woolly creature in full tack.

“Your base has been in contact with us, Agent Myers. The… ‘helicopter’ will be available in the next quarter of an hour to transport the injured and then several of your ground vehicles carrying medics will be here in an hour or so, once some of the larger ice walls the enemies made are taken down. I am not sure of the extent of your injuries, but it would likely be best to take advantage of one of the first two options versus the third, which would be riding one of the cavalry’s spare _zhado _back to your base.”

Glancing around, John is unable to actually _see _any of the aforementioned ice walls and turns quizzically back to the tall, willowy fae who manages to parse the issue immediately.

“Your caravan was spotted and followed for some time before they began raising the walls behind you, first, and then sorcerers at several different positions began moving towards one another to close you off from outside help. Most sections are also still obscured from sight by highly adept illusion magic, which is why many of us will be staying and assisting to reveal said areas and then begin working to either manually or magically knock down more portions of the blockade.”

John listens to all of this with an attentive ear, nodding along but definitely feeling more and more drained and ever-so-slightly anxious in one regard: seeing if Chulainn is going to be okay.

“Okay,” he says trying to map it all out in his head. “So, I can either wait an hour here—”

“Fifteen _minutes_, John: the helicopter is—” Narza interrupts.

“—not necessary, since I’m not _severely injured, _Narza.” John finishes the sentence. The big fae begins to grumble something to refute the BPRD agent’s reply, so John simply talks over him, refocusing on the new fae, whose name he rudely keeps forgetting to ask about.

“A _zhado_ is the next fastest option after the helicopter, right?”

The theretofore poker-face guardsperson looks over at Narza, unsure, as if seeking assistance (or maybe permission). John’s eyes dart back to Narza, whose expressive face and hands convey a message of ‘might as well’ to his junior officer of sorts, who then refocuses on the BPRD agent.

“Ah… yes, Agent Myers. It would be the next fastest, since it is very easy to temporarily bend the ice magic to allow an individual through if they move quickly enough— which you would be.”

There’s no need to weigh any other information, as far as he’s concerned, when it comes to an answer.

“Alright: let’s do it, then.”

With another uneasy, almost sheepish glance at Narza, the gangly fae motions for John to follow him.

“As you wish, Agent Myers.”

On the way to the big, magical steed, John tries to steel himself for what’s likely to be a pretty rough trip back to HQ, based on how simply _breathing _wrong has started causing some discomfort for him.

Getting to go full _Platform 9 ¾_ through a magic-bolstered ice wall would be _so _much cooler if it wasn’t happening in these circumstances, he silently bemoans.

*

Unpleasant doesn’t even begin to describe how hellish the journey had been for John (not that he’ll readily admit the fact when he knows others had _definitely_ had it worse than him, today). Fortuitously, at some point, he’d managed to mostly compartmentalize his perpetual discomfort so as to not embarrass himself in front of the two stalwart, rigorously trained and battle-hardened fae flanking him. 

By the time they ride by the secondary transpo entrance at headquarters, though, John is breathing shallowly through clenched teeth and sweating from the constant ache from being jostled about on his mount’s back for nearly twenty minutes. The outside world gradually filters back in and he becomes aware of someone standing next to him that’s been repeating his name for more than a few seconds.

“Hmmwha?” he responds inelegantly, releasing the reins he has in a death grip and taking in the thoughtful fae speaking to him.

Around him are the stables that the BPRD and Winter Court had added next-door to one of the base’s garage’s entrances. Right next to him is Narza, who looks at someone behind John, talking over his head, essentially, even while actually standing on the ground below his eye \\-level.

“Hm— he was right; I’ll escort Agent Myers to the infirmary, now.”

John frowns and finally starts to dismount the woolly horse-moose hybrid, which, going by its size in comparison to its larger kin, is very likely still an adolescent.

“I’m right here, guys. Also, I was planning to go to the hospital wing already— no change in my plans,” he grumbles, trying not to get too grouchy from the persistent achy twinges that zing through his torso whenever he exacerbates his injuries.

As he talks, he clumsily swings one leg over the animal’s broad back and rump while bracing himself for the jarring slide-drop to the ground. As gravity takes effect, he is startled by an unexpected grip over his hips that slows his descent to the hard-packed ground into a slower and gentler one.

Ironically, the gasp he lets out in surprise ends up eking a bit of pain out of the situation anyway, but it doesn’t stop him from pivoting and giving the stink-eye to the yet-unnamed Winter Court guard who had silently approached to pull off the sneaky (and very helpful) maneuver.

“H-hey!”

Dark grey, eyes seem to glitter and the fae’s thin, dark lips crumple a bit in the middle as if it had quickly suppressed a smile. John continues grumbling while setting himself to rights, as his longish coat had gone askew while dismounting.

“Thanks for the rescue, but I’m perfectly capable of getting off of one of these things on my own, by now.”

“Apologies for the unsolicited assistance, Agent Myers. I only wished to reduce your chances of re-injury, as it seems you are not actively taking such precautions, yourself.”

Ignoring the fairly typical dry sort of needling that all the fae he’s met seem to exhibit, John rolls his eyes as he brushes a few stray strands of blue-grey fur from his coat sleeve. The BPRD agent lightly stomps his booted feet once or twice to dislodge any particularly large bits of ice or debris before addressing the unfamiliar fae again with a tired smile.

“Yeah, yeah… probably went smoother than it would've, I guess. Now, it’s definitely been an exciting day, uh…”

“Dren, Agent Myers— you know my sister, Dyth, well.”

“Right. Dren, I’m approaching my daily quota of crazy supernatural stuff for the day, so I’ll be taking my leave to check in on your boss, now, before anything else exciting happens. So… I’ll seeya around, I guess.”

Dren, raises a nearly hairless eyebrow before bowing with a farewell and taking their leave, making sure to lead the bored-looking _zhado_ with them towards the main part of the stables. Narza’s quiet chuckle after he says his own farewells to his fellow fae are indulgent, but John’s a bit too eager to leave and check on Chulainn’s condition to offer him a smile in return.

“Shall we, John?”

Nodding, the BPRD agent steps with the most spritely version of his dragging gait he can manage, hoping that good news and a good prognosis await his friend. Subconsciously, and oddly enough, a random thought passes through his mind, wondering about what exactly another immortal prince might be doing at the moment.

With a shake of his head, though, his thoughts refocus on his sparse plans for the oncoming evening: 1.) check on Chulainn, 2.) get himself checked out by a medic, and 3.) _finally _get back to bed to sleep off the _insane_ day he’s had. An easy, straightforward, and uncomplicated agenda.

*

(As the famous phrase begins, though, ‘The best laid plans of mice and men…’.)

_ **FIN** _

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive any glaring errors-- ya girl has been going THROUGH IT with life the last few months. My brain is def not in peak proofreading mode, rn. haha
> 
> *  
Come check out [my writing blog](https://dovahdoes.tumblr.com/), where I post early fic snippets and keep you updated on what i'm working on in what fandoms!
> 
>   
Kudos and comments are love: feel free to leave me some, kind readers~. (ღˇ◡ˇ)~♥


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